As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,Eternal sunshine settles on its head. GoldsmithThe Deserted Village. L. 189.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us, The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in;At the devils booth are all things sold,Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay,Bubbles we buy with a whole souls tasking, Tis heaven alone that is given away,Tis only God may be had for the asking,No price is set on the lavish summer;June may be had by the poorest comer. LowellVision of Sir Launfal. Prelude to Pt. I.